


That's Not Yours

by Rathenon



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Sharing Clothes, but not on purpose oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathenon/pseuds/Rathenon
Summary: Love makes you blind. To your clothes.ORRoger and Rafa have an unfortunate series of wardrobe mix-ups. Everyone else desperately tries to play damage control while stuck on hard mode. Divine intervention is probably needed.





	That's Not Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: not real
> 
> Also, I changed my name so if you think you're going crazy you're not ahahahahaah

\--

 

Rafa instantly knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the suite for his pre-practice physical therapy, because Titin was frowning at his shirt. 

“What’s the matter?” Rafa asked, picking nervously at the offending article of clothing in question. It was white, with a simple black graphic design on it. Nike had decided to “be bold and appeal to the modernism and hip culture of the emerging youth counter-culture,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He only knew that it was the lines their representative had parroted at him when they’d come to deliver the fresh set of kits for the season. 

But either way, he’d thought it was fashionably adequate at the time. He still did now, even with Titin giving him weird glances.   


“Don’t you like it?” he asked Titin. 

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” said Titin slowly, working his jaw around in a way that was reminiscent of chewing on a particularly tough and annoying bit of steak, “it’s great and modernistic and fresh and appealing and all that shit, but, uh, Rafa...I don’t think that’s yours.”

It was a confusing response. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. “What do you mean, ‘you don’t think it’s mine’? It’s mine. It’s part of Nike’s new lineup for this season.” 

Titin looked like he wanted to die. Rafa recognized the look from whenever he managed to suffer a crippling injury that Titin had to treat, which unfortunately meant that it was a common expression on his face.   


“Yes, you’re right, that’s part of Nike’s new lineup,” Titin said, pronouncing each syllable as if it physically pained him to do so, “but it’s not... _ yours. _ ” He gestured exaggeratedly around with his arms as if this would telepathically communicate his intent to Rafa. 

The strategy, if it could even be called one, predictably failed rather miserably. Rafa crossed his arms. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Titin.”

Titin made a strangled noise in his throat. “It’s not  _ yours, _ ” he repeated like a broken record on its last legs to the record-afterlife. “It’s, well, you see, part of, that is to say,  _ belonging to  _ another player’s unique Nike kit. The unique Nike kit that you have, but, sadly, of course, doesn’t include...theirs.”

Rafa decided that Titin was not making any sense whatsoever. “Titin,” he said exasperatedly, “you’re not making any sense whatsoever.”

It was at this moment that Titin lost any pretence at subtlety and semblance of sanity. “Oh, fuck this,” muttered Titin, so quickly and softly to himself that even Rafa might’ve missed it if not for the fact that he was a world-class tennis player who thrived on equally world-class reflexes. Then, to Rafa, he said: 

“That’s Federer’s shirt. You might want to change before you go outside looking like that.”

Rafa’s face was redder than clay when he frantically dashed out of the suite. 

At least Titin had the good sense not to ask where he got it. 

 

\--

 

“That’s not your shirt.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It  _ definitely  _ is.”

“It  _ definitely  _ isn’t.”

“You’re insane, you know that? I’m going out to practice.”

“Cool. But before that, tell me: how was the sex last night?”

“What the fuck?”

“Exactly.”

Roger Federer looked down at his shirt one more time--really looked at it, not just giving it a passing glance--and groaned. “How did you know? You haven’t even looked at the updated Nike shirt catalogs.”

Mirka just settled more deeply into her armchair and turned her attention back to the latest edition of  _ Vogue  _ she was perusing. “Your shirt sleeves were even baggier than usual. Especially the left one.”

Roger grabbed a nearby pillow and threw it at her. She dodged it, giggling. 

“Does he fuck you like he does in French Open finals?” she called after him, as he fled from the room in search of clothes that he actually owned. 

 

\--

 

“I’m telling you,” Sascha hissed at Novak, closing his locker door and turning to face him, “we need to stage an intervention!”

Novak was drinking something green and presumably sugar-free in front of his own locker--in other words, he was not giving a shit about anything that Sascha had to say.  _ Stupid hippie,  _ Sascha thought, disgruntled. 

“Just mind your own business, man,” Novak said, not even looking at him as he glugged down the concoction. “They’ve been on tour for more than a decade, like me. I’m pretty sure they know how to be discreet about their private lives, and all that nonsense that comes with being a pro--”

Sascha yanked the bottle out of Novak’s hand. 

“Hey!” Novak protested, but Sascha was now grabbing him by the shoulder. This action gathered them a few questioning looks from the players around them, so Sascha glared at them pointedly, and they quickly turned their attention back to whatever they were doing before. After all, it wasn’t a good idea to get on the World Number Three’s shitlist.

“ _ We need to stage an intervention, _ ” Sascha hissed again, the urgency creeping into his voice. “It’s bad, Nole. It’s really bad. It’s going to be a media shitstorm if a camera ever catches them.”

For once in his life, Novak read the atmosphere and did not piss off his conversation partner. Sascha thanked his lucky stars. “Really?” he croaked, eyeing his stolen bottle longingly. 

“ _ Really. _ ”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, trust me,” said Sascha grimly. “It’s bad. Super bad. Just yesterday, I caught Roger with a Nadal hoodie. Red bull logo and everything. Luckily, I got Domi to hint it to him before he went outside and made a mess of things.”

“Wait, seriously? Rafa’s logo is  _ huge _ ! It’s iconic. You’d have to be absolutely blind to miss that, man. I don’t believe you.”

Sascha’s grip on Novak was still rock solid. “You want to call me a liar? I have pictures.”

Novak snarled and slapped at Sascha’s arm, twisting away from the punishing force on his shoulder. “I still won’t believe it...maybe it’s just a fan-edited photo or something. You know how they like to Photoshop crazy things. I get that their relationship is kind of new, but Roger and Rafa aren’t the type to lose their minds as if they’re lovesick teenagers, like Romeo and--”

Just then, the locker room’s doors slammed open, and in walked Rafael Nadal, headphones on and racket bag ready. 

But none of that mattered, because he was wearing a black sweatshirt with ‘RF’ stenciled on it in white. It looked very tight on him, especially around his biceps.

The locker room fell into a hush, the players all hurriedly averting their eyes from Rafa and determinedly minding their own business. No one wanted to be the person to tell the imposing King of Clay about his wardrobe mix-up.

For his part, Rafa ignored everything with his usual obliviousness and went to his regular locker. After a brief moment of awkwardness, all the players started chatting to each other again, albeit with the occasional sneaky glances towards Rafa’s direction. 

“--Juliet,” Novak finished weakly, staring at the Spaniard. “Oh my god. We need an intervention.”

Sascha pointed a triumphant finger straight at Novak. Somehow, it managed to convey victory, frustration, smug righteousness, and utter despair all at the same time. “That’s what I’ve been  _ telling  _ you!”

 

\--

 

Novak had experienced a lot of unfortunate situations throughout his long life. This one, he thought resentfully, probably took the cake.

“You talk to him,” Novak decided.

Sascha gaped at him. “You’ve known him longer--you go do it!”

“Who, me?!” Novak hissed. “That bastard hates me even more than unaligned water bottles! We’d get into a fight in the middle of the locker room!”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t hate you,” said Sascha, rolling his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

Novak frowned. “Really?”

Sascha waved away Novak’s doubt. “Really. Well, probably. Anyway, don’t worry. If you get into a fight, I’ll back you up.”

“Thanks,” said Novak gratefully. Then the words fully registered, and it all came crashing back down to reality. “Wait, no, no, no! Listen, Sascha, he’ll take it better if you’re the one to break the news. Trust me.”

“You didn’t trust me about the photos that I said I had,” Sascha shot back. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m ten years older than you, and way better at tennis. You’re just a whiny brat who can’t handle best of five sets.”

Sascha bristled. “Hey!”

“It’s true, don’t try to deny it--”

“Alright,” Dominic Thiem interrupted, placing a placating hand on both of their shoulders, “I’ll go break the news to him, so you two can stop arguing, alright?”

The Austrian had snuck up on them during the argument. Novak hadn’t even noticed him getting close.

Sascha turned to face Domi, eyes widening. “But...last time, you were the one to tell Roger too…”

Domi smiled with the serene and blank numbness that every man feels when they have decided that to accept their fate. Novak knew that expression from the mirror. They met very often at Roland Garros matches with Rafa. “It is alright.”

Novak watched Domi turn around and make a beeline for Rafa’s locker. “There goes a brave soul,” he whistled under his breath. 

“The bravest,” Sascha agreed fervently. “Wonder how red Rafa’s gonna get?”

 

\--

 

The answer was, apparently red enough to storm out of the locker room.

Grigor Dimitrov was doubling over in laughter as Novak recounted the tale to him in the lounge. “And  _ what  _ did he say? Before he ran out?”

“He said,” Novak said, straightfaced, “‘ _ The ‘R’ stands for Rafa, no? _ ’”

Grigor howled and slapped the table, sending their Evian water bottles trembling. “That’s  _ amazing _ !” he crowed. “God, that must’ve been a sight. I wish I was there.”

“No, you don’t,” Novak muttered, remembering the decidedly awkward atmosphere that ensued after Rafa fled the place. “The second-hand embarrassment alone gave us all first-degree burns.”

“Ah, well,” Grigor took a sip of water. “Live and learn, yeah? They probably won’t mix it up after this.”

“Yeah.” Novak sighed. “Live and learn.”

He was getting the terrible feeling that they were being overly optimistic.

 

\--

 

They were.

“Roger,” Sascha cried out, exasperation finally winning out over his fear of embarrassment, “that’s not your tank top! For fuck’s sake,  _ you don’t even wear tank tops! _ ”

 

\--  


 

The clothes-switching fiasco would’ve probably gone on for longer, perhaps until a lucky camera caught them before Sascha, Novak, Domi, or some other unfortunate soul on tour could intervene in time, but thankfully for everyone’s sanity, this all changed when Roger announced a thirty million dollar Uniqlo contract. 

Rafa aimlessly scrolled through Uniqlo’s catalog on his phone. “They are very different from Nike, no?” he remarked. “Much more, ah, compact? Not sure what the word is.”

From the other side of Roger’s suite, Roger was pulling on his shorts. “Yeah,” he grumbled, hopping on one foot. “Lots of monochrome kits. Not like Nike at all. But, uh, I don’t think they got the sizes right because these are  _ really tight… _ ”

“Hm.” Rafa flicked through yet another page of shirts and bandanas, ignoring Roger’s increasing number of curses. “Well, is good. More money for you. I am okay with that. Is always a good thing. Not many years of tennis left in you, anyway, so not as much prize money as before. You have to make it up somehow.”

Roger tripped on a sock that was lying innocently on the ground, yelped, and fell face-flat onto the bed. “Stupid sock,” he groaned, rubbing his nose. “Fuck.”

“Oh?” Rafa said slyly, ears honing in on the double-entendre, “did you ask for something?” He got up, putting his phone to the side, slipping off his shirt. 

“No,” said Roger, flipping over to face Rafa. “But, yes. That would be great too. Screw practice, anyway. My back is sore--I’ll message Sevi later.”

“Maybe I can give massage, no? Better than any trainer.” 

Roger thought that one day, Rafa’s flirtatious wink was going to be the death of him. The man’s face  _ had _ to be illegal. “Definitely,” he said, pulling Rafa in for a kiss. “And don’t worry about your clothes, either. No need to separate them from mine.”

“Oh?” Rafa asked around his lips, groaning.

“Yeah. Look, I have Uniqlo, you have Nike. It doesn’t get easier than that…”

“Mhm,” Rafa agreed, and they flipped over onto the bed again.

Neither of them ended up going to practice. They were more than okay with that. 

 

\--  


 

Of course, nothing in life was resolved that easily. If it was, humans wouldn’t have wars. Or world hunger. Or malaria. Or poverty.

“Change your  _ shoes,  _ Roger! Your  _ shoes _ !”

“Someone murder me,” complained Novak, as they all watched Roger race out of the locker room with orange  _ La Decima  _ Nike soles. 

“Murder Uniqlo first,” hissed Sascha, rubbing his forehead. “What kind of a sports clothing company doesn’t manufacture  _ shoes _ ?”

“No idea,” said Domi glumly. He looked forlorn. 

Novak sighed. “Does anyone have a spare thirty million bucks handy to bribe Adidas into sponsoring Roger Federer’s fucking shoes?”

  
  


End

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rafa's semifinal curse is giving me anxiety and I don't like it l o l.
> 
> As is rapidly becoming tradition, I'm drowning my sorrows through writing.
> 
> Unfortunately, at the rate this is going I'm gonna end up finishing a novel *sobs*
> 
> Also, 1-800 BIG FOUR's update will hopefully be coming soon(ish) :)
> 
> Lemme know what you think!


End file.
